Countenance of Man

by Matthew Nuth

  Onwards and upwards. The group moved with a general leftward arc to their climb, bringing them to the concrete walls of the bunker that was raining death on those on the beach.

  Chapter 5

  I thumbed through a couple of more pages before, putting the photo album aside to read though some additional passages in the journal, getting some insights to the person I had never thought of as being young. As a kid, your only perception of your father is that of just being a father, nothing before, nothing after, never anything but your father, at least until he had withered away to just an old man.

  * * *

  I never met Matthias, but I have grown to respect him. To Hilke, your husband was good, but not lucky. Please forgive me . . .

  It is amazing how our thoughts of what is “normal” can change based on our surroundings. For Paul, this was now normal. He sat in a fox hole, well not so much a fox hole as an enlarged bomb crater, with two of his remaining compatriots from his original platoon. They had been redeployed several days earlier to the front as reinforcements to blunt a push by the German 5th and 6th Panzer Armies along with the German 7th Army. The US Army had been completely surprised by the Blitzkrieg attack through a weakly defended and densely forested area, the Ardennes Mountains. It had been more than six months since embarking on the drive to Paris.

  Fatigue had set in. For Paul, it was a good thing; it kept him from thinking about the lack of reinforcements and their dwindling ammunition supply. He had not slept more than a few 30 minute stints over the past four days. His energy had been borrowed only from the common objective of saving friends he had never met, just grunts like him defending Bastogne. To be successful, they had to break through German forces surrounding the town.

  Although cold during the day, it became miserable once the sun dropped below the tree lines. Cloud cover was the only saving grace in that it served as a modest blanket over the country-side, perhaps the only thing saving the three soldiers from hypothermia. Even though night had fallen several hours earlier, the hillside had never become truly dark; the snow reflecting the diffuse moonlight eliminated any hope of using the cover of darkness to advance. Trees at the crest provided cover for the German machine gunners, making it imperative to keep one’s head down and below snow level to avoid a quick demise.

  The three had burrowed under the snow to access tree branches and rocks to line the bottom of their foxhole to provide some reprieve from the perpetual mud. Keeping dry was critical to staying alive to fight tomorrow.

  The three soldiers had lost the rest of their platoon earlier in the day, and they had debated their options vigorously before night set in. Tactically, Paul could see they had few options. Moving forward now meant stepping into the direct fire of heavy machine guns. Escape also was not an option in that the ground behind them provided no cover whatsoever. They had elected to stay put until the moon declined in the night sky and then advance up the hill on their bellies under the cover of snow. In the meantime, they would snipe any Germans that ventured beyond the tree line. It was highly likely that they would meet their makers within the next three hours.

  The noise of the heavy panzer tanks had stopped shortly after sundown. The three had assumed this only provided a brief respite before they regrouped for their attack on Bastogne in the morning. Hopefully, the three could make the wake-up call more eventful. In any case, they had promised each other that they would not stop until their bullets ran out.

  Samuels, Baker and Paul peered out from the edge of their foxhole. They had mounded snow into 10-12 inch walls with a small opening just large enough for which to sight and shoot their M1s. They had hoped the snow would obscure their view from the prying eyes above. They had no idea if it would work, but at this time they had few options. It hearkened Paul back to the days of his childhood snow ball fights and snow forts. So far, the tactic had worked; no fire had been directed their way for the past three hours, while at the same time they had alternated taking watch through the 6” hole in the snow.

  Patience never had been one of Paul’s strong points and faced with another two to three hours of waiting on the moon was taking its toll. He was finding it difficult to concentrate as he watched through the hole. He thanked goodness when Baker began to talk, providing some relief from the build-up of tension that had obviously gripped all three.

  In Baker’s soft southern drawl, “Paul, anythin’ moving yet?”

  Paul, pulled back from his sighting and looked to Baker then to Samuels and then back to Baker. “It is so still. No movement, no noise, not anything. With the reflection off the snow, though, my eyes are starting to play games with me . . . you know seeing phantom motions. I close my eyes and open them, the phantoms are gone, and it is just snow.”

  “You know; I am wondering if the folks shootin’ at us feel the same as we do? You know, thinkin’ they’re right and that they’re just defendin’ their land. I have a hard time getting’ how they can all be so bad.”

  Samuels straightened up to listen.

  Baker continued, “My Grandma is German, right off the boat and she’s good and right. She can’t understand how this all happened. Her sister is still alive and lives in a town called Muenster. She tried to get out back in ‘39 but was stopped. Not all of the Germans are bad.”

  Samuels commented, “It’s a disease. The hatred spewed from Hitler since the 30’s was bound to take hold. It provided someone besides themselves to blame for their problems . . . too seductive to let it pass. Yeah, not all bad, just seduced.”

  “Seriously, we are facing death in a couple hours because of the Krauts up that hill” motioning with his thumb towards the tree line behind him, “and you are defending them. Maybe we should put our hands up now and throw ourselves on their mercy.” Paul was exasperated. “Samuels, aren’t you a Jew. How can you defend any Kraut?”

  “Paul, I might be Jewish, but I am also German. My folks immigrated in the 20’s. They had nothing at home, nothing to keep them there and they love the good ole USA. I still have family in Germany. Hopefully, they will still be alive when we liberate them.” Samuel’s countered. “Even though my family and religion may have been forsaken by my Fatherland, I cannot imagine that my family has been forsaken by their friends in that land.”

  Baker commented, staring into the night, “Damned it all. I hope you’re right, but you know the rumors don’t look good for your kind. I suspect you might be soundin’ a lot more like Paul in a couple of months. That is if we make it through t-night. Paul, anythin’ movin’ yet”

  Paul flipped his head back to his sighting and quietly held up his hand to his buddies signaling to pipe down.

  * * *

  For the Panzer Army, the 47th Panzer Division, the fighting had been too easy. The Americans had been taken by complete surprise. They were now poised to push into Bastogne, providing critical control of roadways and the logistical advantages of such control. Ultimately, defending Bastogne was the Allied force’s goal.

  Matthias Rieker had been on the move for the past three days. He had once been proud member of the German 5th Army, the linchpin to the drive to Antwerp, putting a dagger into the heart of the Allied push into Germany. The Reich was on the move, and Matthias was now distraught.

  Several months ago, Matthias had become all too aware of the lies foisted on the German people by their Fuhrer. Throughout his life, Protestant values had driven home the pure evil of lying. Now lies threatened to kill his nation, but, ironically, now his lies were likely the only thing that had kept him and his family alive. His wife, Hilke, was a “mischling,” a mutt, half Jew, half Gentile; a fact they had needed to bury deep, far below prying eyes. Matthias and Hilke had long ago recognized they could not acknowledge the Jewish blood that coursed through Hilke’s veins. Pure Arian heritage was a prerequisite to wealth, status, freedom, and life, itself. They had ostracized themselves from Hilke’s parents and grandparents in 1938 and had
ensured there was no contact ever since. This had actually been Hilke’s parents’ idea.

  As heart breaking the separation, it was likely the only thing that had prevented Hilke and Matthias from being relocated to a labor camp. Hilke’s parents and grandparents had not been so lucky and had long since been moved to a labor camp in the south. Last year, Hilke had given up all hope of any reunion with rumors of the labor camps being nothing more than fronts for extermination factories. She had become an alien in her own country, completely alone. Matthias was now forced to fight a war he did not want and did not believe in. Hilke was alone in Dresden waiting for the Russians; fearing her fellow Germans, praying for the Americans.

  * * *

  The 47th Panzer division had pushed forward for three straight days, crushing all Allied defenses thrown at it. The velocity and veracity of the push had provided Matthias hope he might use the resulting chaos to finally escape his German co-patriots and give himself up to the Americans. He had hoped his rank of “Hauptmann” would provide access to some leniency upon his capture and provide him the opportunity to share what he knew of the German attack plans and the weaknesses of his division, invisible to the Allies, but to him, so apparent. For Matthias the repulse the German offensive was critical for peace. In his mind destruction of the Reich was the only hope for Germany. Matthias had come to the stark realization that if he lived, it likely meant Reich had been victorious and the whole world had lost. If Germany lost in this bid to push back the Allies, he too would likely die. He prayed for forgiveness and for the deliverance of the Allies.

  He had long ago acknowledged both the error and the futility of the Reich’s quest to control the European continent. “Übel”, evil, is how he had come to view Hitler and his ilk. Anything he could do in his role to minimize their success in murder had become his challenge. Today, the American’s pinned down below were surprised, exposed, and hopeless. He had a choice, participate and lead the blood bath or, without recourse, become a traitor to the Third Reich. The choice had seemed so easy and straight forward, until he had come to realization it could very likely mean his life would end today.

  Prior to today’s engagement, Matthias had extoled his platoon to concentrate their fire on a few target areas and conserve ammunition. Although conservation was a real need with their limited ammo supply, he had been ultraconservative in limiting the amount he allocated to the team under the guise of maintaining adequate supply for the push into Bastogne. In reality, he was using the limited allocation of rounds and replacement barrels to reduce his team’s rate of fire. Their machine guns were exceptional in tearing apart the enemy both figuratively and literally. His goal, limit his squad’s success without making his intentions transparent. Their ability to take lives was limited only by his ability to restrict their rate of fire.

  This night would provide him the opportunity he had been awaiting. The fighting during the day was particularly violent and revolting. His German machine gunners had established positions on the top of a rise hidden in heavy tree line. Below them American soldiers had been pinned down, sheltered behind logs and rock walls or hidden in the many craters carved out by the artillery hail from the past several days. The Americans were already dead; they had just not realized it, yet.

  For those Americans that had not perished in the day’s onslaught, they could only thank the ineffective logistics rapidly thrown together for the offensive. Ironically, in spite of Matthias’s overly conservative allocation of ammo to his men, the Germans had, in reality, run short of ammunition for the deadly Maschinengewehr 42, or MG 42. At 1,200 rounds per minute, the gun was a gift from the Devil, himself, but chewed through the ammo at an alarming rate They had needed to pull back in their shower of steel and lead to provide time for additional supply to arrive.

  In Matthias’s platoon, he had quietly made sure the three infantrymen charged with keeping the machine gun firing by running for additional barrels and ammo never achieved their objective. He calmly dispatched them one by one with his Lugar as soon as they moved out of the gunner’s vision. His gunner team was the last to experience Matthias’s treason. As they trained their fire, he quietly disposed of them with a three quick bullets the backs of their heads. Even as he committed treason against the Third Reich, he was confident he had redeemed his soul.

  This time of year, night came early. With the sunset, the flow of lead from German gunners had quieted, only to be replaced by booming of artillery and the rumble of the Panzers as they turned north to encircle Bastogne. Matthias remained behind, his platoon lying only meters from him, mute and lifeless. Hauptmann Rieker had taken each of their lives in the hope their deaths might save lives tomorrow.

  He sat silently, his back against the ice-covered wall that had provided cover from the helpless American souls hundreds of meters down the slope. Beside him lay a pair of semi-functional binoculars with one eyepiece shattered, his Lugar P08 pistol void of any shells, his journal in which he had just completed documenting his admission of treason against the Third Reich, and a smoldering cigarette. In his lap was a half-finished letter to his wife. He struggled under moonlight and through tears to write what would likely be his last words to Hilke; words that she would unlikely ever see. His pencil, a stub no more than 10 centimeters in length, made his writing even less legible that normal.

  He hoped Hilke had left Dresden several months ago, to the refuge of Switzerland. They had planned to reunite in Geneva after the war. Matthias had contacted old family friends that had lived in an upstairs apartment on the Rue du Rhone facing Lake Geneva. They had been happy to make room for Hilke if she could only find means to escape Germany. Unfortunately, travel had become extremely difficult over the past year, almost untenable over the three months. If she had not left shortly after they had finalized their plans, he doubted she would ever make it to this new life. In Dresden, there was no doubt that if her heritage was discovered, her homeland would turn on her instantaneously. Matthias feared for her life every day.

  Closing his eyes, he could still see Hilke’s face as if she was sitting next to him. Closing out the view of bloodstained snow and the stench of gunpowder mixed with rotting flesh, Matthias tried to recall better times, before Germany had invaded Poland and started the downward spiral into oblivion. Hitler’s favorite music, Wagner, was well suited for the hell in which they now found themselves.

  Matthias jerked his eyes open to a feeling of pure shock and fear; his adrenaline rush moved him to instant awareness of everything around him. He must have dozed off, for how long, he had no idea. If he was to give himself up to the Americans, now was the time. Pulling himself up to a crouch and turning to face downhill, Matthias grabbed his binoculars to take a quick look for movement down the slope.

  * * *

  It was amazing how six months of kill or be killed had both aged and calmed Paul. Nerves no longer resulted in what he termed as synaptic shorts resulting in premature and inaccurate shots. Now he was the master of his aim . . . as numerous Wiermach soldiers could attest to . . . had they still been living. Paul was also blessed with uncanny vision at night, easily discerning real movement from those phantom movements that would continually distract Baker and Samuels. Baker and Samuels had become keenly aware of Paul’s ability to see what they passed over and shoot what they missed.

  What Paul now saw was the glint in the moonlight of the sniper’s scope. He squeezed the trigger and the glint was gone. There was nothing but silence.

  * * *

  The moon had fallen below tree line. The snow went from glowing to being a dull, dark gray. Time to move. Paul, Baker, Samuels crawled up and over the edge of their crater in unison. Although the snow was deep enough to keep their burrowing bodies below site lines, the bitter cold had resulted in a hard, cutting surface crust. As they pushed forward the crust cut at any exposed skin, slicing at Paul’s face as he crawled. Blood from Paul’s forehead oozed down his face to his mouth before fr
eezing. He had no pain from the cuts; he was too chilled to feel. Pain would come later.

  The effort was huge. In spite of the cold, Paul was perspiring profusely under his coat. Baker and Samuels labored to his right. They were literally swimming up the slope, though the water in which they swam was nothing more than tiny, sand-sized granules of ice. Baker grabbed Paul’s arm and signaled to wait. Although they had progressed no more than fifty yards, he was already spent. He could go no farther. Baker would either freeze to death on the slope, unable to burrow further or die from a bullet by electing to stand and face his enemies directly. He elected to stand. Nothing happened.

  Baker took a couple more steps up the hill, still nothing. “Hey you freakin’ krauts, come and get me!” Still nothing.

  “Boys, we scared them off,” Baker chuckled as he reached down to help pull Samuels and then Paul up from the snow. “We win.”

  The three stood in silence; complete silence except for the sound of them dusting the snow off their bodies.

  “Hell, Paul, what happened to you?” Samuels had a look of shock on his face. “Does it hurt?”

  Paul’s face and coat were smeared with blood. The bleeding had been stemmed by the cold, but the flow had stained his face red; in the dark it looked inky black. The three moved slowly up hill, having no idea of what to expect once they achieved the crest.